


Awake at the End of the World

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Rebel Without a Cause (1955)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim doesn't shut the gate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake at the End of the World

There are different futures. In this one, a question is asked just a  
bit more forcefully. The one it's asked of thinks about it a little  
longer.  One very slight delay, maybe necessary.  The world doesn't  
end in the middle of the night.  It ends at dawn.

It's still midnight.

"Do you want to come home with me?  We can talk, and in the morning  
we can have breakfast.  Please?" Plato asks.

Jimmy says, "Yeah, okay."  Because it's not like there's anyone home  
at his house, really.  His father, maybe, but he's barely a person  
at all.  He's been breaking for years, slowly, into tiny glass  
pieces, because of something that Jimmy doesn't understand yet.  His  
father on his knees, cleaning up, is so disturbingly normal that it  
makes Jimmy's skin crawl.  There's something there, something that  
his mother knows and his father knows and doesn't want to know.

Plato knows a bit more clearly.  It's pretty obvious.  Knows *what*  
is a bit more of a question, though Jimmy can pretty much guess.    
What Plato asked him, that was an offer, not just an invitation.

It's a long way from Jimmy's house to Plato's, though, and the  
distance puts them back in Jimmy's car, with Jimmy driving.    
Nausea's somewhere very close to the surface.  He drove, he jumped.    
Buzz didn't jump.  Because?  God knows.  Jimmy's never going to get  
to know, but he's fairly sure that this is entirely his fault, and  
it's making him sick.  When he looks up, he realizes he's been  
sitting at a stop sign for two or three minutes, and Plato is  
bending in towards him.  Huge eyes and a hand on his knee that's  
mostly only curious.  "Jamie?"

"What?"

"Jim.  Are you alright?"

"I'm tired.  Maybe I should go home."

"No way.  You should come with me.  It'll be real quiet, and you'll  
like it.  You turn left at the next corner."

It's a step up from his own place.  Los Angeles is still new to  
Jimmy, and he's not used to how Spanish the city is in places.  Big  
houses with gardens around them like small forests.  Big, glossy  
houses with big, glossy cars all around them.  The house he's headed  
for is the one with the moped in the car port and all its windows  
dark.  Satiny white curtains over the window shimmer in the street  
lights.

Plato has an entirely handful of keys in his pockets, most of them  
loose.  Something about his familiarity with them makes him an  
obvious upper-crust latch-key kid.  Possibly other people's latches  
as well as his own get keyed, but that's not something Jim's in  
charge of worrying about.  Inside in the dark, they're both crowded  
by big, tropical plants spilling out of their pots, up against the  
closed door with Plato so close to him that Jimmy can feel the guy's  
body heat through both their jackets.  Something's rustling in  
another room.

"Mister John, that you?"

"Uh-huh.  Go back to sleep."

"You was out late."

"I know.  I'm fine.  I brought a friend over."

Glittering eyes pick Jimmy out of the dark, and then he's faced with  
a towering black woman.  This second of pure intimidation before  
Plato hits the lights.  In the lamp's glow, she's more purely human,  
and he can see her duck her head slightly when Plato looks at her.

"Okay then.  You sleep tight.  When you sleep."  She disappears back  
into whatever dark room she came out of.

Jimmy says, "You said there wasn't anybody here.

"Just her.  She's nobody."

Plato shrugs his coat off, takes Jimmy's, and leads him upstairs.    
There's a quick pause on the landing, then Plato shakes himself like  
he needs to get loose and ducks away into the dark.  He comes back,  
but only after a glass-and-wood slide, and a sound that could be  
glass or ice hitting silver.  The bottle in Plato's hand is the best  
idea Jimmy's seen in weeks.

Plato's own room is utterly non-satiny.  There's a bed, a lot of  
books -- shelves of them, piles on the floor -- and a lot of  
pictures of movie stars by the mirror.  Carey Grant, Alan Ladd.  An  
old Tarzan glossy that's probably Johnny Weissmuller.  Some others.

There's this thing he should know, that his father doesn't want to  
know.  Plato knows it perfectly.

In a dark, half-warm room, with a guy he barely knows, he's going to  
get very, very drunk.  And whatever else Plato's mother's taste in  
liquor might be, it's expensive, it's good, and it hits him like a  
gold brick.  He's shit-faced after two drinks instead of his usual  
six.  Unless it was more, and he's just not counting his swallows  
very well.  But he's happy, he's comfortable, he doesn't have to  
think about Buzz falling into the sea ...

He's going to be sick.

Plato's hands clamp around Jimmy'ss face.  Icy cold skin, face very  
close to his.  "Jim, you okay?"

"I think I'm kinda drunk."

Plato nods, then drops to the floor beside Jimmy.  Keeps half-  
holding Jimmy's head long after the nausea's passed.

When he lets go, he doesn't move away.  Just turns a bit to look at  
Jimmy, who's enjoying the buzz and happily not-thinking.  Every  
touch feels good, right now.  There's nothing hesitant about the  
hand on his shoulder or the one on his leg.

Plato asks, "What's it like to be new?"

"Alienating."

"My head-shrinker liked that word at lot.  I'm not sure it means  
anything."

"I don't like people very much."

"They like you, mostly.  You just shouldn't try to make up to those  
kids.  They're real tough to like."

"I like them."

"They didn't like you, though."  Plato slides in closer, twists.    
Soft, dark head that winds up pillowed in Jimmy's lap, so that  
Plato's staring up at him from a foot away.

"Buzz liked me.  I think we were going to be friends.  He shouldn't  
have gone over."

"He did, though."  Plato's hand slides up his chest.

"I liked him."  Blue eyes, blond hair, a black leather jacket that  
didn't quite go with the boy who was wearing it.  The soft smoulder  
of the look Buzz gave him set his stomach rolling.

Plato says, "I like you."

"Yeah, I'd kinda noticed."

"A lot."

"Good."  Universal good.  One of those things Plato should be  
talking about, since he's the one who supposedly reads everything.    
Unless he only reads about the end of the world.  It's not  
impossible.

"Really?"  Plato's off his lap, looking at Jimmy from maybe two  
inches away.

"Yeah."

Plato kisses him.  It's awkward, but Jimmy's drunk and Plato looks  
(close up, blurred and out of focus) like he might die if he doesn't  
get this just right.  He smells clean, tastes sweet-salty.  His  
eyelashes are the softest thing that's ever touched Jimmy's face.

When Plato sits back, Jimmy scoots out from under him.  Climbs up on  
the bed, mostly to get the distance he needs to think.  On his knees  
to open the window, he sticks his head out into the night.  This  
taste in his mouth.  The way his stomach feels now...

He's damn so scared he could throw himself out and run for the rest  
of his life.  It's a insight of some kind.  Maybe just a tiny  
glimpse into what turned his father into the wreck of a human being  
he is.  And in comparison with this, Plato worries about the world  
ending.  Like nothing else can scare him, so that has to.

If he jumped now, maybe he could fly.

"Jamie?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to leave?"

"No.  I'm still here."  Which is true, though it's a long time  
before he can move.  There are things he didn't know about himself  
this morning, and some of them are making him sick, and some of them  
are making him shake.  There's always this need, lurking back around  
the base of his skull, not to turn into his father.  Right now that  
need's mixed up with the alcohol in his bloodstream and Plato's eyes  
burrowing into his back and the slow burn of sex-sex-sex running  
through his body.

He arches a bit.  Like a girl, but actually not like a girl at all.    
Inviting, just a bit.

Plato slides in behind him and just breathes against his neck.  All  
this and the universe too, if he can just turn around.

It's not even hard.  All Jimmy has to do is twist, let his hip catch  
the windowsill for balance, and pull Plato in against him.  Kiss him  
as gently as he can, because this is maybe the most breakable person  
he's ever met.  Pull Plato in and rock him against his body, because  
this is the only person on earth who seems to care whether or not  
Jimmy falls apart.  Easy enough to play the romantic hero Plato  
needs him to be.  Hold the kiss, hold the boy.

Hold him down.

Not something he intended, but horizontal and wrapped around Plato  
proves to be a more comfortable place than he would have thought.    
Maybe just because Plato keeps not fighting him.  Lies back and  
takes it.  Kisses Jimmy very softly without ever really opening his  
mouth.  Just lips, breath, this boy under him.  Stretched out like  
this is what he's wanted his whole life.  And he *knew* that.

Jimmy whispers, "I'm not leaving," against Plato's mouth.

"Thank you."

The whole Los Angeles night could shrink to two boys in slacks and  
t-shirts making out on a single bed.  Necking, even.  Soft and wet  
like Jimmy can't remember ever having been kissed before.  Plato has  
skin like a girl's and eyes like no girl ever had.  

"What do you want?"

Plato says, "Anything.  I'll give you anything."

Jimmy pulls back and puts his knees up between them.  Glares and  
tries to think.  He's never been this hard, and the fact that it's  
for someone who's obviously the school faggot (class whore) should  
be bothering him more than it is.  He remembers watching the 'kids'  
prowl around Plato on the bluffs, watching him like they might want  
to ask for something, later.  Clamp their fingers like threats into  
Plato's hair while they ask.

"What if I asked you to take off your clothes?"

Plato studies him for maybe ten seconds, then pulls his t-shirt off  
over his head.  Stands up, unbuckles his belt, lets his slacks fall  
around his ankles.  Soft boxers underneath, and mismatched socks.    
They all come off before Jimmy even has time to shift mentally from  
his mostly theoretical question to the fact of the naked boy in  
front of him.

"Okay."  Jimmy's not sure he's ready to match the gesture, but he  
can take his shirt off, at least.  Touch Plato when he comes close  
enough.  Plato's naked and hard and all of him that Jimmy can see is  
those enormous eyes.

He's softer than anybody should be when he spreads out under Jimmy,  
on top of the covers.

Somewhere at the back of Jimmy's mind, a tiny voice is whispering  
that this might not be what Jimmy wants, but he's not sure it  
matters.  Kissing Plato feels good, and the naked body under him is  
the most exciting thing he's ever seen.  The hands hooked in the  
waist of his jeans, working them slowly open, touch him like he's  
the most important person in the universe.

"I don't think we're supposed to."  Kiss.  "I don't.  Fuck."

Plato just nuzzles him.  Pushes Jimmy's jeans and boxers off  
together and strokes his ass gently.  Naked under him like it's  
natural and comfortable, and where did he learn to *kiss* like that?    
Into Jimmy's ear, "I don't think we're going to.  I just want to  
kiss you.  All over."

"Okay."

He's actually more comfortable once he's naked.  Plato's skin is  
like water, and his hands are careful, and they're everywhere.    
Touching him all over.  Mouth on his mouth, on his cheeks, on his  
throat.  On one nipple.  Nothing should feel as good as that.  There  
are careful, tentative fingers on Jimmy's belly, reaching for his  
cock.  Just asking.

"Do it."

Stroking him.  His cock and his sac, the insides of his thighs.    
Plato kisses his breastbone and his stomach, his navel and the rough  
hair leading down from it.  Kisses his cock.  Soft and wet, breathy,  
not very sure of himself but fairly sure Jimmy's going to like this.    
He couldn't *not* like it.  It's the sweetest thing anybody's ever  
done for him.  

It's so good he thinks he might go blind.

And when he comes, Plato lies quiet and swallows him.  Jimmy still  
isn't sane enough to regret it.  He wants to touch.  Pulls Plato up  
to him and kisses before he thinks.  His own taste is still in that  
girl-soft mouth, and Plato hesitates a second before opening to him.    
First full-on, open-mouthed kiss between them.  It's Jimmy's chance  
to lick out the inside of that mouth.  Show him how much he liked  
it.

Kiss Plato too.  All over.  His navel and the soft curve of his ass  
and the inside of his thigh.  The courage that's got Jim into too  
much trouble this week already fails before he can go as far as  
sucking, but a wet, slick hand works too.  He kisses Plato's belly  
while he jerks him.

Sometime after that, while they're wrapped around each other and  
nuzzling sleepily, a lot of the night comes rushing back to hit him  
in the head.  Two stolen cars, one dead boy.  The father he walked  
out on, who's never been brave enough to do what Jimmy just did.

Plato, he notices, is asleep.  He looks relaxed.  Maybe happy.  The  
worst thing Plato did tonight was still a crime, but not one  
anyone's likely to come looking for him over.

Jimmy crawls over Plato and out of bed.  The mirror on the wall  
reflects a set of soft, red bite-marks on his chest and belly.  His  
hair's ruffled badly enough that he may have to wash it before it  
looks human again.

He has to *tell* someone.  He wants his father to see him, first.    
Has to tell him, about this and about Buzz.  He has to go to the  
station, find Ray, and tell him too, though he isn't entirely sure  
why.  Maybe just because Buzz looked at him, about two minutes  
before he died, like, given time, they might have ended up doing  
what Plato and Jimmy did.  And it would have been exactly what Jim  
wanted.

His jeans are on the floor, and even sticky as he is, he can get  
them on.  He pullshis shirt on and walks out, shuts the door quietly  
enough that Plato won't wake up.  He looks pathetically tired.

Downstairs, the black woman is sitting up, reading.  She gives him a  
long, hard look that he probably deserves, but he hasn't got the  
faintest idea what to say to her.  Except, "Tell Plato I'm sorry I  
didn't stay for breakfast."

He slips outside before she can catch him, carrying his shoes and  
running in his stocking feet to the car.  Shoes on, car open, car in  
neutral moving down the street's slope, quiet as a boy can be.  He  
hits the ignition at the end of the block, makes the turn without  
coming to a full stop or anything like one.

Moving through this strange, southern city in the early morning,  
he's tempted to go to the police first.  Spill his guts and see if  
it makes him feel better.  He'll do it soon.  He's two blocks away  
from his house, from his father.  Fat, balding, terrified man who'll  
be waiting up for him, sprawled in the armchair nearest the door.    
Someone whose eyes he needs to see before he can do anything else.


End file.
